Bedtime Story
by lookninjas
Summary: Every Sunday night, Dylan tells her daughter the same story and sings her the same song. And every Sunday night, he's there, listening.
1. Default Chapter

(A/N - This is my first fanfic, and a fairly rough draft at that. Any critiques would be greatly appreciated.)

Bedtime Story

Two redheads in the kitchen, their Sunday night ritual. Almost twins, but not exactly. Dylan's older now, of course. A little rounder, maybe. But her eyes are still bright, and her laughter still rings out as it always has. She isn't as young as she used to be, but she'll never be old.

The young one is taller, slimmer, wears her hair longer. But she has her mother's way about her, the bright laughter, the easy movements. She was always a beautiful girl. Soon, she'll be a beautiful woman, like her mother. So like her mother. He loves them both, in his own way. He loves the way their hair shines in the sunlight. He loves the way they talk to one another, so easily, the antidote to his own changeless silence.

"That bowl's too small. Look, you're getting avocado all over."

"Why didn't you tell me that when I got the bowl out in the first place?"

"You know, despite what you think, I don't actually have eyes in the back of my head."

"That's not what you told me earlier."

Dylan laughs, giving the skillet a practiced shake. He would never have thought she could be such a good cook. "Yeah, well, I lied."

The young one rolls her eyes. His eyes. She's his daughter too. But she pulls a larger bowl out from the cabinet. Strange that their daughter could be so obedient to anyone.

"So." Dylan turns, flipping that hair casually over her shoulder. "How was your… study session?"

"Nothing happened!" The young one mashes her avocados with renewed energy, skinny shoulders working underneath the thin, faded fabric of one of her mother's old t-shirts.

"That's not what I was implying." Dylan turns back to the stove, a strange smile on her face. "Of course, I've got to wonder just why you'd be so defensive if nothing happened…"

"Well…" The young one struggles, at a rare loss for words, and finally falls silent. He loves their silences, too. He loves everything about the bright world they've created around themselves, their home. They're perfect. They're his. "Besides, I thought you liked Toby. You said he was nice."

"I said he seems nice. But you are a Sanders woman. We're not known for having the best taste in boyfriends." He supposes he should take offense to this, but somehow, he can tell that Dylan isn't including him with the rest of her boyfriends. He's different.

The young one frowns at her guacamole, then suddenly cracks a wide, mischievous smile. "Actually, technically, I'm a Zaas woman, not a Sanders woman."

Dylan turns, arms folded. "Do you want to be Brandy Zaas?" she asks. "Because we can go down to the courthouse tomorrow and get everything changed. You can go to school on Tuesday and tell everyone that your name is now Brandy Zaas. If, you know, that's what you want to do."

Brandy scowls and turns away. Dylan, laughing, goes back to her skillet. "I'm sure Toby's a very nice boy," she says, trying to soothe over any hurt feelings. "Just… don't be in any kind of hurry, okay? There's plenty of time for boys. You've got your whole life ahead of you."

Their daughter doesn't say anything, but that's all right. They're never angry with one another for very long. They have the same temper - it flares up in an instant and then disappears. Neither is the sort to hold a grudge, and especially not with one another. They are, after all, mother and daughter. Perfect. His.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mom!" She has been pretending to read a magazine, waiting the entire time for this call. Every Sunday night, it's the same thing. Ever since their daughter was a little girl, the same ritual. Dylan stands, letting her magazine drop to the floor, and goes to answer her daughter's call. He follows, the silent shadow that haunts her every step.

"It's late." Dylan folds her arms, tries to look stern. It never works. "You have school tomorrow."

Brandy has the covers pulled up to her chin, but her eyes are wide and her smile is infectious. "Tell me the story again."

She sits down on her daughter's bed, feigning reluctance. "You're fifteen. You're too old for stories."

"I'll be sixteen in three weeks. And you'll have to let me drive the car then. And stay out past eleven."

"Oh?" Again, that strangeness in her smile. Is she sad? Their daughter has grown so quickly in the past few years. "Why should I do that?"

"Because you're the nicest mom in the world, that's why." The young one's smile never wavers. They've been playing this game every night for years, and she always wins. "And you're going to tell me the story."

"I don't even know why you like this story so much," Dylan says, shaking her head, light reflecting off her curls. Such beautiful hair. That was the first thing he'd seen about her. "It's not romantic."

"Yes it is."

She laughs, touches their daughter's cheek. Such pale skin. Impossible to tell whether it came from her or came from him. They're all pale, all three of them. "You're so weird."

"I'm your daughter."

They stick out their tongues at one another, and giggle, both of them children for a moment. He cherishes it, saves it up for rainy days. "All right." She smoothes the covers, and the story begins.

"The first time I saw your father was actually on some security footage, when we were working on the Knox kidnapping. Natalie was able to isolate his image from a reflection."

"And you thought he was so handsome."

"I thought he was creepy. Creepy Thin Man." There's something almost unbearably tender in the way she says the name. "Not that he was ugly, but… I don't know. We all thought he was creepy. And we also thought he'd kidnapped Eric Knox, so we went looking for him."

"And you found him." Brandy emerges slightly from the covers, her skinny arms behind her head. "At the Red Star party."

"Are you telling the story here, or am I?" Their daughter falls silent, her face suspiciously innocent. "And yes, we saw him at the Red Star party. Alex saw him first. But he saw her, too, and left. We followed him." Leading the three of them, careful to only stay a step or two ahead, making sure they could see him, that they went where he wanted them to. It had all been so carefully planned. "We finally caught up to him in this… alley. And we fought." She smiles, remembering, and he smiles too. "He pulled out some of my hair, and he… he smelled it." It had smelled like vanilla and spices, intoxicating, somehow comforting. Even in the dark alley, it shone so brightly, like a fire. "It was weird. Anyway, we fought for a little while, and then he slipped free, started running again. We chased after him, but he was gone. We found Eric Knox instead."

Does she still regret Knox? She says his name easily enough, but her smile slips a little bit. "But the case wasn't over. Knox told us that Red Star had stolen some of his software. We believed him. So we went down to the race track. Roger Corwin had just bought a race car. It was the debut. Or premiere. Or whatever you'd call it."

The young one grins. "The maiden voyage, maybe."

"Maybe." Interruptions no longer matter. Her eyes are far away, remembering, seeing him. And he sees her, that tight blue jumpsuit, the blond wig… He never liked her in a wig. It was her hair that had drawn him to her, that beautiful red hair. "Anyway, we took the opportunity to plant a hidden camera on Corwin's briefcase, so he could give us a guided tour of Red Star. We needed to find out where the mainframe was. While Alex and I were doing that, Natalie saw the Thin Man again, driving Corwin's car. So she chases him." She laughs a little at the memory. "A round track, and she decides to go after him anyway." He'd enjoyed it, perhaps more than he was willing to admit. There was a purity to the pleasure, sitting behind the wheel of such a ridiculously powerful machine. It would have been so easy to lose control. But he'd known what he was doing the entire time. "And sure enough, he pulls off the track, out into the parking lot, and down the highway, and Natalie just goes after him. God, I wish I could have seen that."

Screaming down the highway, all those cars swerving, making room for him. It had been… fun. It was not something he was used to, but that was what it was. And it was even better to know that he was being followed. But he could only keep the game up so long. And it would be easier for him if the girls thought he was out of the picture. So he took his chance when he came across it. "He wound up driving the car off a bridge. There wasn't anything Natalie could do. She thought he was dead. We all thought he was dead."

"But he wasn't."

Dylan touches their daughter's hand - his long fingers, her delicate skin. Such a beautiful girl they'd created. "Well, we thought a lot of things that weren't exactly true. We'd thought that Roger Corwin had been behind the kidnapping. We'd thought he was trying to steal Knox's software. But it was the other way around. And I thought…" She bows her head, and her hair eclipses her face. "I don't know what I thought. Knox just seemed like a nice guy - cute, a little nerdy, maybe. A little helpless. But he was just using us, using me, to get access to Red Star's satellites, so he could track down Charlie. And I fell for it. I fell for him."

It surprised him to remember that encounter, to remember that he hadn't been jealous. It had startled him a little to see her there, of course, to see that she'd been with Knox. He hadn't liked Knox; he was too showy, a strutting, vain little peacock. It seemed like she could have done much better. But it wasn't really important at the time. "Anyway, I was wrong. And just when I realized how wrong I was, there he was, the Thin Man. That was when I knew it had all been a setup." She was so beautiful at that moment, wrapped in a bed sheet, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. Even at her most fragile, she was so tough, so defiant. He could see the fierce intelligence in her eyes as she made the connections, too late. But he hadn't loved her then. He'd admired her, in his own way, but he hadn't really cared. So he hadn't intervened.

"Knox told me that he'd killed my friends. Then he shot me." It had all happened too fast to really be seen. The explosive noise of the gun being fired. The sound of shattering glass. "He thought he killed me." Even then, he hadn't been sure. It just seemed too quick, too simple. She wasn't the easy target that Knox thought she was. But he hadn't said anything. It wasn't his job.

The girl smiles; it has a wicked edge. "But he didn't."

"No. He hadn't killed Alex or Natalie, either. So all three of us went after him." Knox's partner, Vivian, a shrewd woman, had thought this might happen. She'd sent him out as a sentry, just in case. He'd seen them coming out of the sea, like mermaids, shedding their wetsuits and making their way to the castle. "I went after Knox, Natalie went to rescue Bosley, and Alex went to go tap the signal from the roof." He'd followed the dark one, leaving Knox to take care of himself. He fought her, even took some of her hair, but it wasn't the same. It didn't stir him the way that her red hair had. "We managed to find Bosley and track the signal, but Knox got away from me. He blew up the castle." He hadn't even had time to realize what was happening. There was a sudden explosion, an earthquake, flames everywhere. How had he survived? He couldn't remember anymore.

"Anyway, we caught up to Knox and stopped him before he could kill Charlie. And that was that. I didn't think we'd ever see the Thin Man again. Honestly, I thought he was dead. But a little over a year later, when we were working on the H.A.L.O. case…"

"Helen Zaas," the girl says and giggles.

Dylan shakes her head, showing rare tolerance. "Brandy Zaas," she reminds their daughter, and the girl falls silent, pretending to sulk. Dylan continues the story. "We were tracking an assassin; we realized that his next target would be at a motocross race, so we went there to stop him. And there he was again, the Thin Man. Only this time, he wasn't working against us. He was working with us."

He wasn't expecting to see her again. His thoughts had been on Max, the boy, who didn't realize the danger he was in. The sisters should have kept a better watch on him, but they didn't see the danger either. They were innocent; his job was to protect that innocence as best he could, despite what he had become. But then he'd seen her, her red hair catching the sun, drawing his eye. Something changed inside him at that moment. He felt an indefinable longing tugging at him. It was her hair, of course, but it was something more than that. Deeper. Stronger. From that moment, his attention was divided. He still had Max to watch over, of course, but now he watched her, too.

"He killed the assassin before he could kill Max. And he pulled out some more of my hair. But this time, I got something from him, too. I got this." She produces the saint medal from underneath her shirt. She still wears it for him, after all these years. "Max told us that it came from an orphanage. So we went there. We went to find out just who the Thin Man was.

"The nuns couldn't tell us much. He'd been seven years old when he came to them. They thought he was part of a Romanian circus troupe that had died in a fire." Another fire. He couldn't remember that one. Sometimes, when he dreamed, he saw a beautiful, dark-haired woman, dressed in spangles. She smiled at him. He supposed it was his mother. But he couldn't remember much of anything before the nuns. "He never talked. But he had a thing for hair, even then." She laughs, and he smiles. It was only the truth, after all.

"Eventually, he ran away from the orphanage. But he sent them gifts, visited them sometimes." He still went back there every now and again, though he never let them see him anymore. Many of the sisters who'd helped to raise him had long since passed on to their reward. But he liked to watch the boys, running and laughing in the sunlight. It gave him a pleasant feeling, something almost like these Sunday night stories. "That was all they could tell us.

"We traced the assassin and the H.A.L.O. rings to the Irish mafia. Seamus O'Grady." There's no denying the effect that name still has on her. Some wounds never heal. "And eventually, we traced him back to a former Angel, Madison Lee. We confronted her, on the roof of a theater. The O'Gradys showed up." He'd been following the Angels since he'd seen them at the Coal Bowl, telling himself that he was only protecting them because they were protecting Max. But it wasn't true. "I wound up fighting Seamus; he had me by the throat, holding me over the edge of the roof. I thought it was over." He hadn't seen her right away. The dark one was in trouble, so he'd gone to her first. Then, and only then, did he see Dylan, still kicking and fighting, trying desperately to get free. "And then… There he was. He fought Seamus off. He pulled me back from the edge." She'd been so warm in his arms, and the longing rose up within him, overpowering all other thought. "At first, I thought he was going to kill me or something, but then…" He'd pulled her closer, and she'd become suddenly pliant, her eyes uncertain, fluttering closed. "He kissed me." She was so sweet, vanilla and spices. His fingers tangled in her hair, feeling the silken strands wrap around his fingers. He hadn't been able to resist. "Then, of course, he pulled out some more of my hair."

He'd already brought the hair to his face before he remembered himself, realized that this might not have been the most appropriate thing to do. He shrieked his defiance at her, daring her to hate him, but already terrified that he could lose her. "And I pulled out some of his. So I smelled it, like he was smelling my hair. It was like… It smelled like a Catholic church smells. Do you remember St. Joseph's Cathedral? I took you there for mass a few times. It smelled like that." He'd never seen anyone with his own hair before. It was the most miraculous experience of his life. She understood him. He was no longer alone. And for the first time in years, he felt bold enough to try to say something.

For a moment, Dylan looks like a schoolgirl, talking about her first crush. Only for a moment, though, and then her face falls. "He tried to say something. I couldn't believe it; here was this guy who probably hadn't spoken since he was seven years old, and he was going to say something. I felt…" She ducks her head, and her hair tumbles into her eyes. "Then Seamus came up behind him with the sword." White-hot pain lancing through him, just below the shoulder blade, just off to the side enough that nothing vital was damaged. But he was disoriented with pain and shock, staggered a few steps too far, and he fell. "I saw him fall off the roof. I thought…" Brandy reaches out for her mother's hand, her young face so somber.

Falling, for a moment almost weightless, his only thought the pain, his own blade piercing his shoulder. His mouth opened, but not in a scream. He said her name, or tried to; he couldn't remember any more if he'd actually managed to get the word out. Then the impact, and then nothing. "I managed to take care of Seamus. I wanted to go back, to see if he'd… But there wasn't time. We had to stop Madison. By the time I got back, he and Seamus were both gone. I didn't think I'd ever see him again."

He'd known he wasn't going to die almost as soon as he regained consciousness. He was in the hospital, the sisters were watching over him, and he felt… changed, somehow. So many times he should have died, and yet he never had. But he'd never had anything to come back to life for, either, not really. This time, it was different. This time, he needed to live. For her.

"I thought about him, though, all the time. I dreamed about him." Her voice is confessional, caressing, intimate. "I couldn't tell the girls about it. It just seemed so ridiculous. But I knew, somehow. I knew he wasn't gone." Mending in the hospital, slowly but steadily regaining his strength. She had been uppermost in his thoughts, had come to him in dreams. He had recovered just so he could see her again. "After a while, I began to feel like he could even see me sometimes, like he was watching me." As soon as he was out of the hospital, he became once more her shadow, always a few steps behind, just out of view, watching her. No matter how many times he told himself he should go to her, touch her hair, even speak to her, he couldn't quite do it. She frightened him. He'd never felt this way before. "I even thought he was… I don't know, protecting me somehow. Like, we would be in a situation, and I wasn't sure how we would get out of it, but somehow… I never saw anything, and I never saw him, but I knew. I could tell. So I waited."

As time went by, he was no longer able to sit by, to watch. He began following them even when they were out on their missions. Sometimes he would step in, give them what help he could when he felt they needed it most. For a while, he could almost believe that she hadn't noticed. But she was too smart for that, too perceptive. She caught on. He couldn't stop, though. He watched her when she was at home, waiting by the windows. It would be so easy to slip into her bedroom at night while she was sleeping, to touch her hair, maybe even wake her up. "Finally, he came to me. It was night. I was pretending to be asleep."

The temptation was stronger than he was. She'd left the bedroom window open, letting a breeze drift in. He slit the screen with a dagger and slid inside, meaning only to look, not to touch. Her red hair was splayed on the pillow, so soft. He couldn't resist. The moment his fingers touched the strands of her hair, her eyes flew open. Before he knew what had happened, she was on top of him, her fingers digging painfully into his wrist, her weight heavy upon him. Then she melted into him, and her grip relaxed, and he lost himself in her.

She draws her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. "He was gone in the morning, but I didn't mind. I knew he'd be back again, and he was. We never spoke. It didn't matter. He was alive, and he was with me, and that was all I cared about. When he was ready, we would talk. I was willing to wait for him." They re-enacted that night over and over again, him slipping in through the window, watching her for a moment before approaching the bed. He would touch her hair and her eyes would open, and she'd smile at him. When she smiled, the world dissolved. She was everything. "But it was too good to last. I still don't know what happened, but I can guess."

Every good assassin has enemies. He'd always kept his guard up, but things were different now. He slipped. "Years before, he'd killed a very important man in the hierarchy of Tanaka Yakuza. They'd been looking for him ever since. And they found him." He was within sight of her apartment when they seized him from behind. They dragged him into a car and drove away. They taunted him. They had her picture. They threatened her, all of the Angels, the women he had come to love over the past few months. The idea of her or any of them being hurt sent him into a red haze. The yakuza never stood a chance. But even when it was over, it still wasn't safe for him to return to her. As long as he was a target, she would be a target as well. He could only protect her by abandoning her. He hoped she would understand.

"I never saw him again. A few months went by, and I realized that even if he was gone, he'd left a part of himself with me." She touches their daughter's face, and the girl smiles, though her eyes shine with tears. "He gave me you. And that was the greatest thing that anyone's ever given me. So the story has a happy ending, really."

Their daughter wipes her eyes, quickly. "Do you think he's still alive?" she asks, her voice quivering with a strange new earnestness.

Dylan shakes her head. "I don't know," she says. "I've thought he was dead so many times, but he always comes back. But then, I don't want him to be dead. So maybe I'm just fooling myself. I don't know."

"I think he is." Brandy grips her mother's hand. This is new; this is not part of the Sunday ritual. He draws back into the shadows, but not so far away that he can't still see them. "I feel like, lately, like he's been watching me. I never see him, but sometimes… Like you did, after he fell off the roof. I know he's behind me. I just know."

"Maybe he is." Her smile is careful, guarded, and he knows that she, too, has seen him. He should go. But he stays. "I hope he does. I hope he sees you, sees how beautiful you are. I want him to know about you."

"Do you think he'll come back to us?" The longing in her voice makes him squeeze his eyes shut. He's hurting her, and the last thing he wants is to ever hurt her.

He hears Dylan stand up, hears her walk to the window, and retreats further into the shadows, heart pounding. "I don't know, baby," she says. "I wonder if maybe he's staying away to protect us, to keep us from being hurt. Maybe he's staying away because he loves us." She walks away again, and he breathes a little easier. She's coming too close to him, too close to understanding everything. He should leave. But he can't. "Anyway, it's late. You've got school in the morning."

"First, you have to sing the song."

Dylan laughs, and the laughter calls him back to the window. He watches her sit down on the edge of the bed, tugging on her daughter's foot. "I thought you liked it when Uncle Chad sings the song."

The girl sticks her tongue out, an expression she learned from her mother. "I only said that to be nice to him. I like it when you sing the song."

She leans forward, strokes their daughter's hair. "The sailors say, 'Brandy, you're a fine girl - what a good wife you would be. And your eyes could steal a sailor from the sea,'" she croons, her voice sweetened, mellowed with age. Then she stands and kisses their daughter on the forehead. "Goodnight, sweetheart."

"Goodnight, Mom. I love you." Then the lights go out, and the door closes.


	3. Chapter 3

Brandy is asleep now, and Dylan has carried a cup of tea out onto the deck. She stands and watches the stars, and he stands only a few feet behind her. He should leave, but he can't. He hasn't been this close to her in sixteen years. A breeze stirs the strands of her hair, and he trembles, longing. "We could really use you now," she says. He can't tell if she's realized that he's there or not. "Boys. It'd be nice to have you around, sitting in the living room when they come over, cleaning your sword… You wouldn't even have to say anything."

Only a few moments ago, her voice was laughing. Now she wraps her arms around herself, her voice thick, choked with tears. "I think she's right, you know. I think you do watch us. I think you've been watching us all night, and I think you're watching me now. I hope you are - otherwise, I'm talking to myself. But I just… I wish I could see you again. You wouldn't even have to say anything. I just… I really need to know that you're still alive. I need to know that you haven't forgotten us."

He should leave her. He can't do it. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. "Never," he says, and his voice is harsh, a croak like a raven's. "Never… forget… you."

The mug of tea drops from her hands and falls to the deck, chipping but not breaking, the spilling tea staining the wood dark brown. She turns slowly, visibly trembling now, and he realizes that he, too, is shaking. It's been sixteen years, and there are lines on her face, but she's still so beautiful, so young. Has he changed much? He never could tell. "Anthony," she whispers, reaching out, laying her hands on his shoulders. "Anthony." It is the only name she has ever known him by. The moment is too perfect to be real. Then she's embracing him, almost crushing him, sobbing into his chest, and his arms rise slowly to hold her. At first, he's afraid to hold too tightly, afraid she'll melt away like a soap bubble, like a dream. But it is real; she is real, and he holds her like he'll never let her go. Even after all this time, the world dissolves when he's with her, and nothing else matters. He presses his nose into her hair, inhaling her scent, vanilla and spices. Home. The only home that's ever mattered.

Time stops as they cling to one another, and the world stands still. Eventually, she pulls away, and he feels things lurching into motion once more. She sniffles, and he wipes a tear away from her cheek. Her face is red and blotchy from crying, but she's still so beautiful. "Will you stay, this time?" she asks.

He takes a half-step back, doubtful, considering. He shouldn't. It was wrong of him to even come to her, to watch her, to approach her like this. He can only bring her pain. She takes his hands in hers. "Do you want to see her?" This he knows the answer to, and he nods quickly. "Okay," she says. "But don't wake her up. I don't want her to see you only to lose you again."

This stings, probably more than she meant it to, but he lets her lead him into the house, making no sound as they walk across the carpet. When he last came to Dylan, her home had looked like a teenager's - posters tacked to the wall, battered thrift store furniture, candles melted on every surface, and incense scattering ashes all over the floor. This is so clean, so domestic, such a surprise. They pause outside Brandy's room, her name printed in neat, black lettering on the door. He traces the writing with his fingers, barely breathing. Her handwriting is so much like his.

Dylan rests one hand on the doorknob, presses the other to his lips. He removes her hand from his face and sets it instead over his heart, nodding his understanding. He will be quiet as a mouse. He will not wake her. She opens the door and he slips inside, blending easily with the shadows.

His daughter's room - her private sanctum. Like her, it's caught halfway between the childish and the adult, lipstick nestling cozily on the dresser next to her collection of stuffed animals. She sprawls in the bed, hair splayed over her pillow, arms spread wide. He takes a few steps toward her, longing, his heart beating wildly in his chest. If he wakes her, he'll be caught. He'll have to stay with them forever. And why not, after all? It's been years since anyone has come for him. Surely by now, they've forgotten. Surely it must be safe. But as he reaches out to touch his daughter's hair, he sees her, splayed as she is now, but on the sidewalk somewhere, skin cold and blue, blood seeping from her throat. He snatches his hand away as though he's been burned, and she stirs uneasily in her slumber. He retreats from the room, shaking. He isn't ready. Not tonight.

Dylan is waiting for him in the hallway. If she's angry that he couldn't make up his mind, she doesn't show it. Instead, she takes him by the hand again and leads him into her own bedroom. This room belongs to her, more than anything in the house. Her clothes and records are scattered all over, and there's an AC/DC poster displayed prominently over the bed. She starts rummaging through the dresser as he sits down on the bed. One wall is covered with framed photographs - Dylan with the other Angels, Dylan with Max Bosley, Dylan with Brandy, Brandy alone, Brandy with friends… In the middle, not framed, held to the wall with sticky tape, is a picture he's never seen before. It's a picture of him, looking over his shoulder. "That's from the Red Star case," she says, coming back towards the bed with a large, plastic bag in her hands. "Natalie isolated it from the footage when you pretended to kidnap Eric Knox. I found it going through some old files after Brandy was born. I took it with me."

She plops down on the bed beside him, her hair brushing against his shoulder, and he turns to see what she's holding in her hands. She slides the zipper of the bag open and pulls out a tuft of hair, tied with a ribbon, labeled with a scrap of paper. "Anyway. This is Brandy's. I save a little piece of it when she gets a haircut; I've been doing it since her first one. I thought that… I thought you might want to have it, in case I ever saw you again. So…" He takes the lock of hair from her hands and studies it with wonder. The label reads "Brandy - July 9, 2007." He rubs it against his face, and feels the softness. It's so fine, so delicate. A child's hair. Then he replaces the lock in the bag and pulls Dylan's head down to his, twining his fingers in her hair. They breath together, raggedly, foreheads pressed against each other. He rubs the tip of his nose against hers, his way of thanking her.

She pulls away, looking very seriously into his eyes. "I want to tell you something. I just want you to think about it, okay?" He nods, not wanting to disappoint her. Besides, he's been listening to her for years. It's only better now that he can feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. "When we were doing the Madison Lee case, when I saw Seamus again, he threatened my friends. He said…" Her breath catches in her throat, and she drops her eyes. "He said he would kill them in front of me, just so I could hear them scream." He touches her cheek, trying to reassure her. "I freaked out. I mean, it was stupid; we'd been through so much together, and I knew what they were capable of, but… I couldn't stand the thought of them being hurt because of me. So I ran away.

"But then I met someone, someone who'd been an Angel a long time before I joined the agency. She made me realize that they were hurting more without me around than they would be when I was there, even if something did happen. And she made me realize that they were in more danger without me than they ever were with me. So I came back to them. I mean, I know how you feel, Anthony." Now it's his turn to look away, his turn to soothe him with a caress. "I know you're doing this because you love us. But you don't need to. Just… just think about it, okay?"

He stands; he needs to leave. There's a strange ache in his chest, a tightness. For sixteen years, he's watched them, never expecting any more. She should hate him. Why doesn't she hate him? He whirls around to face her, needing to see disappointment in her eyes, needing her to be angry with him. But she only looks serious. And despite years of caution, years of training, years of difficult lessons, he can't resist her. He falls to his knees in front of her, plunging his hands into her hair, and pulls her down to him. Their lips meet, and nothing matters anymore.

But he can't stay. Too much has happened, and there's too much for him to think about. He needs to lie alone in the darkness and sort things out. She walks him out through her garden, the bag of hair clutched tight against his chest, something for him to cherish forever, no matter what happens. Dylan kisses his cheek when they reach the sidewalk. "Take care of yourself," she says. "And don't wait sixteen years before you come see me again, okay? Come back next week. We'll play Scrabble. It'll be fun."

He brings a strand of her hair to his face and sniffs it, before leaning in to kiss her goodbye. As he turns to walk away, he tries to convince himself that he should never return to them. He isn't strong enough to watch. He needs to touch them, and his touch can only hurt them. He should have learned by now; he should know better. But he clutches his daughter's hair to his chest, and he thinks about Dylan and Seamus, and her fears, and the decision she came to, and he's not so sure that he's doing the right thing anymore. Nor is he at all sure that he could bear to stay away from them any longer. They were his family. They were the only home he'd ever known.

Behind him, he hears singing. "Brandy wears a braided chain made of finest silver from the north of Spain and a locket that bears the name of the man that Brandy loves…" No wonder she named their daughter Brandy; no wonder she's been singing that song as a lullaby for the past fifteen years. But the sailor in the song never comes back. Is that really who he is anymore?

And even as he walks away, he knows he'll be back again. He's not like the sailor in the song. He knows where his home is.


End file.
